Digital Footprints
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Pre-season 1. Private-eye hopeful Joe Mannix meets an interesting man named Lew Wickersham. Although they disagree on almost every element of private investigating, they begin to develop a certain respect for each other. And then Lew's mysterious case somehow becomes Joe's...
1. Chapter 1

**Mannix**

**Digital Footprints**

**By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! This is a collection of short stories taking place prior to season 1, showing how Joe became friends with Lew Wickersham. As far as I can tell, in spite of what it says on IMDB, there has never been any concrete proof within the episodes as to when these two met. Even though their interaction is such that it certainly seems as though they must have known each other long before Joe joined Intertect, I decided to take up the challenge and see if it would be possible to have them form the same close friendship they share in the series if instead they only met shortly before Joe joined the agency. After all, we don't know how long Joe worked there. Joe got his license 11 years before the year the show began, I've heard, and during season 1 he claims he doesn't have a license independent of being an Intertect agent. The time period has been altered to the relative present day (around 18 years ago to start with), because I am convinced that **_**Mannix**_** does not need to be a period piece to be the same wonderful series we all love. Besides, I couldn't resist the fun of Lew being enthused about modern technology. You know he'd just love it!**

**Scene One**

The young brunet carried mixed feelings as he drove to his favorite outdoor café for dinner and took a table far removed from the hustle and bustle of the nighttime crowd.

On the one hand, he was elated. Harry Forrest, his mentor, had informed him that he had passed along all the knowledge he could give. The rest was up to him to learn, out on the street. He would apply for his license and become a full-fledged private investigator!

On the other hand, it left him bittersweet and downcast to think that he would never be working with Harry anymore. He was out on his own, for good.

"_You're a wild card, Joe,"_ Harry had grumped more than once. _"You don't play well with others."_

"_Come on, Harry. We get along okay, don't we?"_ Joe had retorted the last time Harry had brought it up.

"_Sure, but you've sure caused me a crazy number of headaches,"_ Harry had replied. _"And the same will go for any poor sap who tries to work with you. You're a lone wolf, Joe. Get out on your own. Make your own agency. You and all of Los Angeles will be better for it."_

So Joe was going to take Harry's advice. As soon as he got his license, he was going to hang out his shingle and work for himself.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea highly appealed to him. He had always wanted to be his own boss. And Harry was right that Joe's whims and independence and dogged determination drove him up the wall. Trying to conform to what Harry or other authority figures wanted in turn drove _Joe_ up the wall. He not only wanted, but likely needed, to be on his own.

A movement at the next table caught his eye and he snapped back to attention. A man with thick glasses had settled there, looking over the newspaper instead of the menu. When the waitress came by, he ordered something offhand and she left, not even bothering to write it down.

Joe nodded to himself. He had seen that man dining at the café more than once of late. Apparently it was his favorite eatery too, and the waitress had memorized what he liked.

Joe still wasn't sure who he was. He also highly doubted that he _wanted_ to know. The guy seemed like one of those stuck-up businessmen types that Joe couldn't stand. Oh, he was nice enough when he spoke, but he was formal, detached. And when he wasn't looking at the newspaper, he was always fooling around with a laptop or an Apple Newton (it _was _Apple, right? Not Fig?) or a PalmPilot, or whatever they were calling those things these days.

Joe wasn't opposed to using modern technology to help when it was needed. He recognized it could be important. But sometimes it seemed to him that these days, the entire world was running on such technology, even when it wasn't needed. For Joe, the tried and true methods of things—including private-eyeing—were still the best.

As he ordered and started to eat, he began to take notice of something else. He wasn't the only person studying the technology geek. Someone else had sat down at a nearby table and had been doing little else but watching him. And unlike Joe, the newcomer's interest did not seem benign.

Oh, there was no real proof of anything, of course—only his cold eyes—and Joe could hardly tap the geek on the shoulder and say, _"Excuse me, but perhaps you should call the police. That man over there must have something sinister up his sleeve; his eyes clearly show the only logical possibility is that he means you harm."_

Or could he? Since when had he ever been conventional? It was one of the things Harry was always bemoaning about him. Really, Joe had smiled once, it was part of his charm.

Anyway, Joe had long ago learned to never doubt his gut instinct. Right now, it was telling him that something was very wrong.

Both he and the geek got done eating at the same time. When the geek collected his pocket computer and stood, the third man rose as if he were a reflection in a mirror.

Joe was all set to hurry over and warn the technology lover of the stalker. But as he took a step forward, he was surprised when the bespectacled man turned and looked right at the unfriendly character. "Haven't you had enough yet, Doyle?"

Joe rocked back. Perhaps he had misjudged this fellow. At least, he was certainly observant. He spoke with a strong New York accent; maybe he had picked up some street smarts back there before coming out here. But he didn't look like he was the type to get into fights. He still might need some help. Joe lingered.

Doyle's eyes burned. Now his face was one huge storm cloud. "Look, Wickersham. You know my boss doesn't like you poking around in his business dealings. And you know he had me warn you that if you didn't back off, he'd see to it that you'd regret it."

"I know." Wickersham didn't look or sound impressed. "But I don't think he'd like it if you decide to make a spectacle of yourself by beating me up out here. Why don't you just skulk back to your limousine? I don't scare easily."

"Maybe you should." A second man suddenly came up from behind him and stuck a loaded newspaper in his back.

Joe cursed himself. He had been so involved in the conversation that he had forgotten to keep taking notice of what else was going on around them.

Wickersham jumped when the gun poked against his spine. Apparently he hadn't observed that thug's approach, either. "So what do you want me to do now? Come along quietly to your car? What's to stop me from making a scene and announcing that you're here to abduct me?"

"Try it and it'll be your word against ours," the second thug growled.

Joe stepped forward. "Actually," he said smoothly, "it won't."

Wickersham glanced over his shoulder in slight surprise. Doyle glared daggers at the intruder. "So you've heard us," he sneered. "Who are you?"

"Your worst nightmare, if you really try to beat up this guy," Joe answered. He placed his hands on his hips, brushing his blazer aside just enough to reveal the gun strapped to his belt. It gleamed under the overhead lights.

The second thug wavered. "What is this? You brought one of your Intertect punks to watch over you?"

Joe couldn't help being startled in spite of himself. _Intertect!_ He had heard of them. What self-respecting private eye in Los Angeles hadn't? It was a relative newcomer on the scene, but it was quickly becoming one of the largest and most well-known detective agencies in the city. Its claim to fame was its heavy usage of technology to solve cases.

And that meant this Wickersham was . . .

"Do you really want to stick around and find out?"

Joe started back to the present at Wickersham's reply to the gunman. Both of the goons looked displeased, but they were slowly backing off. "Don't think this is the last you'll hear from us," Doyle cautioned. "You know we won't let up."

"Neither will I," Wickersham answered crisply.

He and Joe watched as the thugs retreated into the shadows. When they were gone from sight, Wickersham turned to look at Joe with surprise and interest.

Joe spoke first. "Those are some pretty nasty grunts you've picked up. The only language their type understands is a good beating."

"Which I didn't want to get into here," Wickersham replied, adjusting his glasses. "As you can see, it wasn't necessary."

"Oh, they'll lie in wait and come after you the moment I leave your side and you leave this well-populated area," Joe scoffed.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking them on," Wickersham said. "I can't decide whether your sudden involvement was out of decency or out of a desire to fight."

Joe shrugged. "Fighting has to be done, sometimes. But I promise you, Mr. Wickersham, my 'sudden involvement' was more out of decency than anything else. You looked like you needed an extra hand right about then."

Wickersham nodded. "I appreciate it.

"I've seen you around here quite frequently. Who are you?"

Joe tossed him a lopsided smile. "The name is Mannix. Joe Mannix. I'm . . . going to be a private investigator."

"Going to be," Wickersham echoed. "Then you don't have your license yet?"

"I'll be getting it this week," Joe replied. "And I heard those thugs throwing the name _Intertect_ around. You're _that_ Mr. Wickersham?"

"Llewellyn Wickersham, founder and president of Intertect," was the answer. He held out a hand. "It's good to meet you, Mr. Mannix."

Joe shook his hand. "I wouldn't expect the founder and president to still be out in the field," he remarked. "Founders and presidents usually hang out behind their desks and command everything from the safety of their offices."

Wickersham had to smirk. "Well then, maybe I still have some surprises in store.

"Thank you again for your help, Mr. Mannix. Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime."

"Probably, especially if you keep coming here to eat," Joe said.

He watched as Wickersham headed for the parking lot. He was sure that he was right about the thugs waiting for Mr. Intertect to show up by himself. And he wasn't sure that Wickersham could handle the two of them all by himself.

He sneaked through the shadows after his new acquaintance without another thought.

Sure enough, as Wickersham started towards his car, the two thugs leaped out at him at once. Not surprised, Wickersham immediately wrenched Doyle's arm up in the air, causing him to fire his gun harmlessly. When the second thug tried to lunge for him, Wickersham let go of Doyle and judo-flipped the other attacker.

Joe was admittedly impressed. But when Doyle came at him again, and a third lackey rose from behind the car, Joe was through with standing by and enjoying the show. He ran into the fray, delivering a harsh punch to the new guy. Wickersham, although registering surprise, had to promptly turn his attention to Doyle. A karate chop against his shoulder blades sent Doyle down.

Several minutes later, the three goons were sprawled all over the parking lot, dazed and groaning from their collective wounds. Wickersham leaned back against the trunk of his car, worn-out, his glasses askew. Breathing heavily, Joe slumped forward on the side of the trunk and reached up, idly brushing a streak of red away from his right eye.

"You don't listen very well, do you?" Wickersham gasped.

Joe shrugged. "You'd be laying there moaning yourself if I did."

Wickersham gave him a wry look. "You're awfully confident in your abilities while doubting mine. Still . . ." He surveyed the three thugs. "Three is a lot for one man to take on. I wasn't expecting that third man."

"Then you're grateful," Joe deduced. "You're welcome."

"I _am_ grateful," Wickersham confirmed. "You have potential. But the way you fought reminds me of something out of a hardboiled detective novel from the 1940s."

"Good," Joe retorted. "That's what this world needs more of, Mr. Wickersham—detectives who can still walk the walk and not just talk the talk. People like Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe got along just fine without turning to a computer every time they had a question."

"Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe didn't _have_ computers to turn to, whether they wanted them or not," Wickersham pointed out. "But I take it that you don't have a very high opinion of what Intertect does."

"I think Intertect could use more hardboiled detectives and less armchair detectives," Joe said. "If you rely on your computers for everything, you'll become more machine than man."

Wickersham straightened, pushing up his glasses and placing them on top of his head. "Relying on computers eliminates the human error," he answered. "That's what's wrong with so many businesses today—there's too much potential for stupid mistakes. Computers are far more efficient than people. They don't allow emotions to get in the way of doing their jobs."

"But they're not free of bugs, either," Joe said. "When's the last time your Windows 3.1 crashed?"

"I don't know; I haven't used Windows 3.1 in a long time," Wickersham said dryly.

"Well, whatever." Joe waved an impatient hand. "You know what I mean."

Wickersham regarded Joe in a bit of amusement. "Intertect is the future of detective work, Mr. Mannix. Your philosophy is a thing of the past."

Joe shrugged and smiled. "An oldie but a goodie."

Wickersham shook his head. "This discussion is getting us nowhere. I'm going to call the police. After we give our statements, you'll be free to leave. And I have to admit, I'm grateful you didn't listen to me earlier."

Joe stabbed the air with a finger, unable to resist one final barb. "You wouldn't have got that sort of helpful disregard from a computer. Computers only disregard people's orders when they want to break down and be most _un_helpful."

Wickersham gave him a stern look. But as he turned away to take out his car phone, a smile was on his lips.

Joseph Mannix was a unique one.

And Llewellyn Wickersham rather liked him in spite of himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Scene Two**

Joe really hadn't expected to see Mr. Wickersham again. They had parted ways after giving their statements, as promised, and Joe had gone home to nurse the small cut on his forehead and get some much-needed sleep.

If he possibly could sleep. Even though he didn't yet have his license, he considered this adventure his first step towards real private-eyeing. He would be encountering a lot of criminals and probably getting into a lot of fights. There had been some during his time under Harry's wing, something that had driven Harry nuts. And it was good to stay in practice.

The knock on the door startled him in the middle of pouring a drink. Setting the decanter on the counter, he crossed the room to the front door and then paused. No one was supposed to come by this late. It was always good to know to whom you were opening your door before actually doing it.

"Who is it?" he called, gruffly, keeping his hands on the door to hold it shut, if need be.

"Mr. Wickersham," came the New York-accented reply.

Joe raised an eyebrow. But, nodding to himself, he hauled open the door. "Well, good evening, Mr. Wickersham," he greeted. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"No, I'm sure you weren't," Wickersham answered, stepping inside.

Joe shut the door behind him. "How did you even find me, anyway?"

Wickersham gave Joe a look. "I _do_ run a detective agency, Mr. Mannix. And believe it or not, the computers put together some very interesting information, such as your address."

Joe spread his hands in the air. "That still doesn't explain why you came."

"No, it doesn't," Wickersham agreed. He nodded to Joe. "I knew you'd been hurt. I wanted to check up on you and see how bad it was."

Joe shrugged, secretly surprised and touched, particularly when Wickersham was a stranger. But he wasn't about to admit it. "So you've seen," he said. "Is that going to go into one of your shiny little files that the computer eats for breakfast?"

Undaunted, Wickersham merely adjusted his glasses. "No, this is just for my own personal record," he said.

Joe nodded. "That's good to know. I was just about to have a drink. I don't normally drink with strangers, but after what we've been through, I guess I can't really call you a stranger any more, can I?"

"At least not as much," Wickersham said.

Joe toasted him with his glass. "Point taken. Would you like to join me?"

"Yes, thank you." Wickersham came over to the bar and reached for the decanter. Joe slid aside to offer him better access.

"So tell me something," he said, staring at the glass as though suddenly finding it very interesting. "Do you actually bill yourself everywhere as 'Llewellyn'?"

Wickersham gave him an unimpressed look. "Sometimes I shorten it. But it's actually a very respectable name."

"I never said it wasn't," Joe quickly said.

"No, but you were thinking it," Wickersham retorted. "I've seen that look and others like it countless times in the past."

"Well . . ." Joe couldn't keep the amused smile off his face. "It _is_ pronounced the same as a name for girls. You know—'Lou-Ellen'?"

Wickersham was still staring down his nose at Joe. But then he turned away, focusing on pouring the drink. "For your information, it's a Welsh name that means 'Lion-like leader.'"

Joe considered that. "I guess it must fit you pretty well, considering all the detectives hopping aboard your Intertect ship. I haven't heard of any that wanted to disembark."

"They're treated fairly. But they're expected in turn to obey the rules."

"Now there's one of my least favorite words," Joe commented.

"You don't believe in rules?" Wickersham frowned.

"Oh, I believe they're necessary in some cases," Joe said. "But a lot of the time they're just red tape between me and getting my goals accomplished."

"Rules exist to help you or anyone else _get_ your goals accomplished," Wickersham retorted. "You can't just run slap-happy all over the place."

"Like I said, sometimes they're necessary," Joe said. "What kind of rules do you enforce?"

"I wouldn't say I _enforce_ them, but they're there to keep Intertect running smoothly and efficiently," Wickersham said. "For instance, each agent is allowed only one piece of paper on his desk at any given time."

Joe nearly choked on his drink. "What?!"

Wickersham fixed him with a wry look. "It's to keep desks from ending up in the fabled sea of disarray that's popular with many fictional detectives. I want my agents to be able to find exactly what they need, when they need it, instead of spending wasteful time looking for it in the disaster area of their desks."

Joe set the glass down with a loud _thunk._ "Well, maybe so, but some detectives actually think better and find things better with a messy desk," he replied. "They have their own particular brand of order."

"If they're working for Intertect, they'll have _my_ particular brand of order," Wickersham said. "I haven't heard any complaints yet."

"You're hearing one now," Joe declared.

"You don't work for Intertect," Wickersham pointed out.

"And I never intend to," Joe said with a decisive nod.

"I never intend to make the offer," Wickersham returned. "I try to make it a practice to only hire detectives that are already experienced. Intertect doesn't need a green agent."

"Makes sense," Joe shrugged. "I want to be out on my own, anyway."

"Have you had any experience at all?" Wickersham wondered.

"Some," Joe admitted. "I had a good teacher. But he kicked me out in the nicest possible way and told me to open up my own place."

Wickersham stared at him. "Can I ask why?"

"He figured he'd taught me everything that was in him to teach," Joe said. "But he was probably really just getting tired of bailing me out after fights."

Wickersham did not look pleased. "It happened a lot?"

"Oh . . . not a _lot,_ but most of the police officers at the local precinct know me by sight now," Joe said.

Wickersham raised a hand to his forehead as though he had suddenly developed a headache. "Make that one more reason why I will never ask you to join Intertect," he declared. "'Fight first and ask questions later' is not a philosophy Intertect is known for. It's not what I _want _it to be known for."

Joe was undaunted. "Like I said, fighting is necessary sometimes."

"Is it necessary every time you do it?" Wickersham returned.

"It usually seems so at the time," Joe said. At Wickersham's disbelieving look, he continued with a bit of a quirked eyebrow, "So your agents don't fight? And you've never lost any of them to guns or knives or being hit too hard?"

"Intertect agents can fight when necessary," Wickersham said stiffly. "We run frequent training exercises to keep everyone in shape."

"Good for you," Joe said. "But if most of your agents are trained to operate computers instead of going out and doing legwork, they're just not going to be prepared when the time comes for fighting."

"The computer operators are separate from the trained agents," Wickersham answered. "But the agents are expected to check in with the computer operators when they have questions about their cases."

"Ah. Well, that's better than what I was picturing," Joe conceded. "But I still say Intertect relies too much on computers."

"Oh? Why don't you come down to Intertect headquarters and witness a live demonstration of how useful our computers are?" Wickersham challenged.

"Really? You'd just let me walk in there?" Joe said in surprise.

"With a Visitor's Pass," Wickersham quickly added.

"I'll take you up on that," Joe decided. "You've got me too curious now to stay away. Besides, I've got a point to prove."

Wickersham gave him a look that said _I'm sure._ "Alright, then be at this address tomorrow at nine A.M.," he said, scrawling an address on a Post-It notepad Joe kept on the counter.

"Nine A.M.?!" Joe echoed. "Oh come on! Can't you open for business at a reasonable hour, like ten or eleven?"

"We 'open for business' at seven, actually," Wickersham said dryly. He leaned back, amused by Joe's look of utter disbelief.

"Do people actually come in wanting detectives at seven in the morning?!" Joe exclaimed.

"Sometimes they want them even earlier," Wickersham said. "You have to get up early to meet the demand."

"I guess." Joe shook his head. "So is everyone expected to be there at seven sharp?"

"People trickle in for the next couple of hours or so," Wickersham said. "They absolutely have to be there by ten at the very latest."

"That's more like it," Joe said in approval.

"Of course, it won't really make any difference to you, Mr. Mannix, since you're not going to be an Intertect agent," Wickersham said.

"Very true," Joe nodded. He paused. "However, since what happened tonight ended up very heavily involving me, I'd like to know what brought it about. You were very vague about it at the café. Why were those men after you?"

Now Wickersham's look was stern. "Surely you're aware that I can't talk about my cases. It would violate the client's confidence."

"In normal circumstances, I wouldn't ask," Joe insisted. "But since what happened is hardly 'normal circumstances', I think I'm entitled to know exactly what it involves."

"You involved yourself," Wickersham pointed out. "As grateful as I am for your insistence on helping me, it doesn't change that fact. I can't in good conscience tell you anything."

"Okay, then how about this?" Joe's voice was suddenly hard, his eyes flashing. "Because I involved myself, those bad boys are probably going to come after me now, too. I need to know what I'll be up against."

"They're in jail. And the person they work for doesn't even know your name," Wickersham frowned.

"Those kinds of people have ways of finding things out," Joe insisted. "How will you feel if I don't show up tomorrow morning because some more of his goons jumped me and left me in an alley someplace?"

"I would say it would take an incredible feat to get you into an alley," Wickersham said. But he sighed, removing his glasses and setting them on the counter. "Honestly, the less you know, the safer you are. All I can tell you is that this whole mess isn't what you think. They don't work for the sort of person you probably think they do."

"What sort of person is that?" Joe retorted. "A mobster? Frankly, yes, that's about what it sounds like."

"It isn't. Please, Mr. Mannix, don't ask me anything more. If you don't know anything, they won't be able to get it out of you. They might leave you alone."

"I doubt that. But okay, if that's the way you want to play it." Joe finished his drink. "I'll still be there tomorrow morning. Although if these people are watching you, they'll see me go in and _really_ think I'm involved with Intertect. They might come after me all the more."

Wickersham considered that. "I'll send a company car for you," he determined. "One with tinted windows."

"Hopefully they won't be staking out the parking garage and see it leave," Joe said.

"Intertect agents know how to shake a tail." Wickersham stood. "Of course, if you'd rather not come . . ."

"I'll be there," Joe insisted.

"Then you are accepting the possible risks of your own free will," Wickersham said.

Joe shrugged, spreading his hands with a smile. "Sure, after you presented the idea to me in the first place. Once it got planted in my head, I couldn't easily get it out."

Now Wickersham's look said _You are impossible!_ But he relented, taking up his glasses and standing up. "Fair enough. I'll see you in the morning."

"Oh, by the way," Joe said. "Are you sure you weren't followed here?"

"I made sure," Wickersham said firmly. "Anyway, I don't think any new henchmen have been put on me yet."

"For both of our sakes, I hope you're right," said Joe. Setting the glass down, he came forward to walk with Wickersham to the door. "But thanks for dropping in to check on me," he said sincerely. "I've been watching you at that café for a long time now. I didn't think you were the type who'd do something like that."

Wickersham paused, his hand on the doorknob. "And what type did you think I was?" he asked warily.

"More machine than man," Joe smiled.

Wickersham gazed at him for a moment with an unreadable expression before hauling open the door. "I can assure you, Mr. Mannix, as much as I respect and appreciate technology, I am still very much a human being."

Joe leaned on the wall with one hand. "I can see that now," he assured him. "And I'm glad of it."

Wickersham glanced back for another moment, as though assessing the situation and Joe's words. Then, satisfied, he nodded and stepped outside. "Goodnight, Mr. Mannix."

"Night." Joe stood at the doorway, waiting until Wickersham was in his car and driving away, before going back inside and locking the door.

That had certainly been an interesting experience. And he had best get to bed; the morning was going to be just as interesting, if not surreal.

Who would have ever thought that he would meet the rising star of the Intertect Detective Agency, let alone be invited and preparing to see a computerized agency in action? He wouldn't have touched either with a ten-foot pole before. Now, while he was still unconvinced by the idea fueling the agency, at least he had come to see that the founder was not basically a robot that breathed. Llewellyn Wickersham was a very real and—dare he say it?—quite likable person.

Idly Joe wondered what had led to him getting the idea and drive to come up with Intertect—and the money to make it happen. In some ways he seemed older than Joe, but he really didn't look it. In actuality they might be around the same age.

They had really been hitting it off well too, which was another surprise. They were from such different walks of life and such opposite viewpoints, yet they could talk things out sensibly.

Joe smiled to himself. If only the rest of the world could be like that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Scene Three**

Intertect was just about what Joe had pictured it would be. The main room, the computer room, was filled with wall-to-wall supercomputers, whirring and blinking in response to commands given by their operators. Said operators were hard at work, feeding in commands, reading printouts, and talking on the telephone to get more commands and discuss the printouts. Every now and then a secretary passed by with some new information to be input.

The computers were handling all manner of requests, from researching people and finding addresses to calculating probabilities and likely persons of interests on cases ranging from robbery to blackmail to murder. Even though Joe was still skeptical at best, he had to admit it was interesting seeing how they catalogued the information.

One thing that struck Joe the most was that it seemed, surprisingly, a happy atmosphere, instead of either a harried, frantic mess or organized and stiff. The operators enjoyed their work; the agents greeted them, Mr. Wickersham, and even Joe with genuine congeniality and cheerfulness.

Mr. Wickersham responded in kind. Here he was completely in his element. Joe could see how much he loved these big old flashing machines and took pride in the information they were spitting out. And as he pieced things together from said information and brainstormed with the agents and computer operators on their cases, he showed quite a skill for detective work.

"Okay," Joe said at last. "So they're doing pretty well. But how big is their database? How many people are in it?"

Wickersham gave him a mischievous look. "Just about everyone you can think of," he said. "If they're somewhere, anywhere, in a public database, they should be in our computers—even if all we have on them is a name and a birth date."

"What, like me, for instance?" Joe scoffed. "You just met me yesterday. I couldn't be in your database."

"We don't have to know someone to have them in the computer," Wickersham said. "Pender, run off all the information we have on Joseph Mannix."

"Yes, Mr. Wickersham." And with several pushed buttons, the computer responded with several sheets of paper.

Wickersham gathered them with a smile and handed them to Joe. "Is it correct?"

Joe skimmed through the pages, both stunned and a bit creeped out. "Everything," he said. "My family in Summer Grove . . . Pop and Kitty, the café owners who moved here from Summer Grove ahead of me . . . Harry Forrest . . ." He looked up at Wickersham, somewhat accusingly. "How did you get all of this?"

"As I said, Mr. Mannix, it's all a matter of public record," was the smooth and calm reply. "The computer went through and calculated everyone and everything known to have been associated with you. You'll notice it didn't overlook your Army service or your time in college."

"It didn't overlook anything," Joe frowned. "The government boys would have a heyday with something like this."

"Oh, they use things like this," Pender broke in.

"I should've known," Joe grunted, tossing the papers aside.

By the time Wickersham led Joe to his office—a nicely furnished room filled with the personality that paintings, sculptures, and other knick-knacks offered—Joe was quiet. Wickersham glanced over his shoulder, definitely noticing.

"You haven't said much," he commented. "Not since you saw how the computers' information helped at least two of my men obtain possible leads. And how it knew all about you."

"Okay, I'll admit that maybe, just maybe, the computers have some practical use," Joe spoke. "But as far as predicting probabilities and speculating on persons of interest, I just don't buy it. Those computers could be trying and convicting innocent people. They're just examining the cold, hard facts and the evidence, the same as the police do. And I don't think the police always come up with the right answers, either."

"On that we agree," Wickersham said. "But the computers only provide suggestions on who might be the likeliest persons of interest to investigate. They're not saying anyone is positively guilty."

"I suppose. But don't tell me there aren't some eager-beaver gumshoes who'd fall for it hook, line, and sinker," Joe replied. "There's plenty of humans who can cause that to happen without computers backing up their wrong ideas all the more."

Wickersham crossed to his desk and sat down, watching Joe. "I try to curb any such issues before they get out of hand," he said calmly. "Most Intertect agents can manage just fine without throwing accusations around. And on the rare occasions when one of them goes too far, it only takes one prompting to get them back on-track."

"Well, you seem to have it all figured out for yourself," Joe mused. "I have to say I _am_ impressed. You've accomplished quite a lot, getting this place going and making it into something big at your age. You can't be much older than I am."

"All it really takes is an idea, the drive to make it happen, and a lot of hard work," Wickersham said with a slight smile.

"And money. Don't forget that," said Joe, finally plopping into a chair near the desk.

"I saved and built up gradually. Once upon a time, I was the only agent." Wickersham laced his fingers on his chest. "You're so determined to strike out on your own. Let me tell you, it's not always as glamorous as Philip Marlowe makes it sound."

Joe shrugged. "I'll take my chances," he smiled.

"I'm sure you will. You don't seem like a man who would turn against what he wants even if he's advised against it."

"You've got me pegged right."

Wickersham adjusted his glasses, looking down at a report on his desk in a partial attempt to hide his growing smile. "You remind me a lot of myself when I was just starting out," he said. "Most people believed I couldn't do it. My father tried to discourage me I don't know how many times. He wanted me to be a lawyer."

"I saw the degree on your wall," Joe said. "You graduated law school, but went into the private-eye business. Interesting. We're only required to get an associate's degree in criminal justice, not go through a whole legal program. You must have been planning to do what your dad wanted."

"For a while, yes. But then I followed my heart's desire, the same as you. I decided that if I stayed in law school for the full haul, I would be that much more capable of handling whatever came my way in the private investigator business. I didn't ever want to be in a situation where some smart shyster could trick me on loopholes that he understood more than I did."

Joe nodded. "And has it helped?"

"Immensely."

"I can't think of many lawyers who would desire to give up a cushy, safe career for danger behind every door," Joe mused.

Wickersham looked entertained. "I can't either."

"Have you actually _been_ in danger, though?" Joe wondered. "Or do you mostly just stay behind the front lines and command your computers and your agents from the safety of your desk?"

"I've been in quite a bit of danger. What you participated in last night was not the first time I've been accosted."

Joe nodded to himself. "I should've guessed it."

"I would doubt that any good private investigator has ever been free from danger while on the job, no matter where or how he works." Wickersham straightened, letting the chair snap back into place. "Even with the computers that you don't like, Mr. Mannix, I'm certain you would find a lot to like about working for Intertect."

"I guess that's possible," Joe relented, "especially if there's a lot of thrilling cases."

Wickersham stared him down. "Define 'thrilling'."

Joe lopsidedly grinned. "You know—death-defying stunts, someone always trying to kill you to get you off the case, damsels in distress . . ."

"Basically, a James Bond novel," Wickersham sighed.

"Well, minus the whole 'the entire universe is in danger and only you can save it' plot," Joe quipped. "I'd rather work on a bit more of a small scale. Say, one person is in danger and only I can save them."

"Or her." Wickersham regarded Joe in exasperation, but there was a twinkle in his eye. "To be honest, Mr. Mannix, there's some of all of those elements, to an extent. But it really isn't thrilling to be shot at, beat up, or thrown off a cliff."

"It beats sitting around here all day," Joe said. "Well, as long as the shots miss and the beating isn't serious."

"And the cliff is only a few feet to the ground." Wickersham's voice was filled with dry sarcasm before sobering. "Mr. Mannix, this is real-life. Real-life doesn't follow James Bond or U.N.C.L.E. or Philip Marlowe or whatever it is you think you're in for. If James Bond were a real person, he would have been dead a long time ago. No one can cheat death that many times and come out on top of it."

"I suppose you're right," Joe said, spreading his hands.

"Honestly, if that's what you're expecting, I'm not sure you should be a private investigator at all," Wickersham frowned.

"Maybe not, but I'm going to find that out the hard way," Joe declared, getting up from the chair. "Thanks for the tour, Lew. It's been fun, but now I have a license to procure. I've clocked in the necessary experience working for Harry Forrest, so the next step is sending in my application."

"Wait a minute." Wickersham leaned forward, his gaze boring into Joe. "What did you just call me?"

"Well, if we're going to keep running into each other, I can't see myself continuing to say 'Mr. Wickersham'. And no way am I going to walk around saying a formal mouthful like 'Llewellyn' every time I want to talk to you. So I'm shortening it. You said you shorten it sometimes."

"Yes," Lew said slowly. "And to that."

"Good guess." Joe headed for the door. "You don't mind, do you?"

Lew looked a bit overwhelmed. "Right now I'm not sure if I mind or not." He waved in a dismissive manner. "Go on and send in your application."

Joe smiled. "Wish me luck."

"I do." Lew watched him go. When he was alone, he leaned back and pondered for a moment.

_Were_ he and Mannix going to keep running into each other? There was really no reason why they should. But there was something he liked about Mannix, and apparently the feeling was mutual. Now that such a strange person had wandered into his life, it was hard to imagine him wandering out again so soon.

Perhaps it was just that Lew wasn't sure he _wanted_ Mannix to wander out. He found Mannix intriguing in spite of himself. And in spite of the fact that they could barely agree on the time of day.

Normally Lew was a non-confrontational person, preferring to avoid conflict whenever possible. But he was willing to rise to the occasion when it was necessary, as many had found out. And with him and Joe, the arguments—or banter, even—came so naturally. They both seemed to handle it good-naturedly. It wasn't like arguing at all, or at least, not like a raucous, vicious quarrel.

The ringing of the telephone jerked him back to the present. "Hello? . . . Oh, hello, Mom." He relaxed, toying with a pen on his desk as he talked. "Yes, everything's fine. . . . You heard what?!" He sat up straight with a jerk. "Who told you that? . . . No, I didn't get hurt. Someone helped me. . . . A strange character named Joe Mannix. . . . I didn't know him at all. I know him now. In fact, he was just here.

"But Mom . . . ! Mom, what about the woman who called you today? Did she say anything else? . . ." He scowled darkly, dropping the pen to the desk. "It's not true, Mother. I don't have any interest in her. Oh, she tried to reel me in, alright. She thought I'd be another of her paid pigeons come home to roost. She told me she hadn't thought that any private detective would be honest, at least to the point where he couldn't be bought at all. That shook her up quite a bit. . . . No, there shouldn't be any more trouble from her, not with her boys in jail. She was just trying to scare you and get me angry through you." And it was working; Lew's eyes were flashing and he was holding the telephone in a death-grip.

"Yes, I'm still coming for dinner. . . . Joe Mannix? Mom, he helped me last night and I was just giving him a tour of Intertect. There's no reason why we'd ever run into each other again. . . . Yes, I'll be over at seven. I love you too. Goodbye, Mom."

Lew hung up and stood, heading for the door. He didn't want his mother to worry, but he had a very bad feeling that the woman behind the men who had attacked him last night was not about to let up. And the very fact that she had dared to contact his mother meant she was bound and determined to play even dirtier than before.

He was not about to stand for that. He was going to take out a restraining order and go with the officer who served it, to give her a piece of his mind.

And if she dared to have anything to do with him or any of his family again, she would regret it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Scene Four**

Joe had just barely settled into his convertible and was preparing to start the engine when a familiar face suddenly appeared at the passenger side. "Joe! What the heck are you doin' at a fancy place like this?"

Joe jumped a mile. "Harry?" He turned to look at his mentor in surprise. "For that matter, what are _you_ doing here?"

"Word gets around. I heard that you were coming for a tour of the place today." Harry opened the passenger door and climbed in uninvited. "This is the last place I ever thought you'd come to work."

"I wasn't coming to work!" Joe exclaimed in a bit of exasperation. "I . . . well, I helped the big cheese out of a jam last night and we got talking about the practicality of using computers in a detective agency. So he wanted to show me how they worked."

"Sure, sure."

"It's the truth," Joe insisted. "You know I'd never go for working here."

"I wouldn't think so," Harry replied. "You still stubbornly refuse to even carry a pager. You'd go bonkers in a place like Intertect!"

"You've got that right." But Joe hesitated, tapping his hand on the steering wheel. "Have you ever met the guy who started this place?"

"Lew Wickersham? Yeah, once or twice."

"What'd you think of him?"

"Nice guy. I'm not sure I like so much reliance on computers either, Joe, but I can tell you that it's the most modern way of detecting. This Wickersham guy is going to keep private investigative work current and up-to-date. He'll probably just get more renowned for his methods as the years go by."

"Yeah, probably." Joe glanced to him. "Can I drop you somewhere?"

"Nah, I've got my car," Harry said. "I just had to come by and see if those rumors were true." He grinned. "I thought it'd be more logical to find snowflakes falling in you-know-where than you in Intertect."

Joe leaned on the steering wheel. "Where did you hear this stuff from, anyway?" he wondered.

"Oh, just around," Harry said vaguely. "Private eyes have quite a grapevine, as you should know by now."

"I know," Joe retorted. "And you can just tell your grapevine that my plan is still the same—get my license and strike out on my own."

"Okay, okay. No need to get touchy. Although . . ." Harry paused.

Joe gave him a Look. "What?"

"It might actually be a feather in your cap to start out by working for an outfit like Intertect. It'd give you more credibility when you go your own way." Harry smiled self-depreciatingly. "Working for Harry Forrest for three years just ain't as big a deal."

"Come on. It's a big enough deal," Joe insisted. "And working for you is more the kind of thing I'd want on my resume. Besides, Wickersham doesn't want any green agents. He's only been hiring agents who already have independent licenses and have worked on their own for a while. I guess that's one reason why Intertect does so well," he realized.

"Then you've already talked to him about a position for yourself," Harry said with great amusement.

"No, I haven't. We were talking in general."

"Maybe," Harry said as he climbed out of the car. "But I still say you should give it some thought. Maybe Mr. Wickersham would change his mind."

"It's fine by me if he doesn't," Joe insisted. "Just because he's a nice guy doesn't mean I want to work for him. The governor's a nice guy too and I don't have any desire to work for him."

"Yeah, but the governor's not in the same line of work as us," Harry replied.

"Neither is Mr. Wickersham," Joe immediately shot back. "I don't want any part of this computerized private-eyeing."

"You're kind of harsh," Harry commented. "It's just a computer. Like I said, constant reliance on them isn't my favorite brand of detective work either, but I can appreciate that they're pretty useful to have around. You know I've got one or two at the office."

"Yeah." Joe finally gave a lopsided smile. "So maybe it _is_ harsh, but you know me, Harry—never afraid to speak my mind."

"I think _I'd_ be afraid if you _weren't_ speaking your mind," Harry quipped, shaking his head. "Okay. See you later, Joe. Come by for dinner on Sunday, why don't you? Ruth's been asking when you're coming over again."

"Sunday dinner sounds great, Harry," Joe said, already hungry. "You know I'll be there."

"Great. I'll tell Ruth." Harry waved as he headed off.

"We can make it a celebration of me getting my license!" Joe called after him.

"They probably won't process your application that fast!" Harry said over his shoulder.

Joe shrugged. Well, probably not, but there was no reason why they wouldn't accept it. He would be an official private detective before long.

He was in a fairly good mood as he drove away from Intertect. He would need to take the state exam before he could fill out his application, and he planned to do that right after brunch at his favorite eatery.

Odd to think it was Lew Wickersham's favorite eatery too.

He picked up the afternoon paper from the newsstand next to the café when he arrived. The headline made him pause and raise an eyebrow.

_Fading Star in the Spotlight Again_

According to the article, an aging movie star had long been suspected of orchestrating payoffs, beatings, and worse to keep her skeletons in the closet. There was no official proof, and she claimed that she was being investigated and the evidence fabricated by either the detective or someone else.

Joe frowned as he studied the photograph of her, standing at the bottom of a staircase in a slinky black dress. There was something that wasn't quite right; he wasn't sure if it was the photograph itself or the subject.

She certainly looked appropriately sullen, her wrinkles clearly marking her as a relic from another time. Her hair, incredibly still red despite her age, fell in curly waves to her shoulders. The photograph had been an attempt to recreate a scene from a film she had made in the 1940s. It seemed authentic enough. But perhaps what was off was simply that it was not the 1940s and she looked like a product of two different times.

He shrugged and set the paper aside to make way for the menu. Even if something was off-kilter, and even if it was something more than clashing time periods, it didn't matter that much to him. It wasn't his type of case. Anyway, it was already being investigated.

"Hello, Joe," a smiling waiter greeted as he approached. "What'll it be today? The usual?"

Joe looked up with an answering smile. "Hello, Bob. No, how about we mix it up today? I'm in the mood for something different."

"Oh? Because of you striking out on your own?" Bob asked.

"That's a good enough reason, isn't it?" Joe replied.

"It sure is," Bob agreed. "Congratulations, Joe! So it's really time?"

"It's really time," Joe said grandly.

"Gee, it's strange to think of you not working with Harry anymore," Bob mused.

"Yeah, it is," Joe agreed, a flicker of sadness passing through his eyes. "But he kicked me out, said it's time for me to be on my own. And I can't really say I disagree with him."

Bob grinned. "So you want something different today. Like what?"

"I was thinking of a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich," Joe said.

"Joe, that's for breakfast, not lunch!" Bob protested.

"So?" Joe retorted. "You advertise that you'll make any menu item at any time of the day."

"Yeah, sure, we do." Bob shook his head, amused. "If that's what you want, Joe, you'll get it."

"And a large glass of chocolate milk," Joe added.

"You sure have some interesting eating habits," Bob said as he headed off to the kitchen.

Joe grinned a bit. He did the unexpected on so many things. Why should food be any exception?

xxxx

Lew was still fuming by the time it was evening and he was going to his mother's for dinner. That woman he had been hired to investigate, the one who had sent her henchmen to cause trouble for him, had been absolutely obnoxious when presented with the restraining order. She had made a big show of crying and acting sorrowful that Lew "just didn't like her" and she "couldn't understand why."

The police officer had been unmoved. Lew had been furious. She had already tried to bribe him into stopping the investigation and coming over to her side. When he had refused, she had instructed her men to follow him and beat him up. And she had the gall to pretend to wonder why he didn't like her!

He tried to get his emotions under control as he pulled up in front of his mother's house. If she picked up on the slightest hint of anger from him, she would worry. She certainly didn't need that. And Lew wanted this to be a relaxing time when he wouldn't have to think about _that woman_.

The door flew open before Lew even made it all the way up the steps. "Lew!" Mrs. Wickersham hurried onto the porch, holding out her arms to her only child.

Smiling, Lew reached her and hugged her close. "Hello, Mom," he greeted.

She pulled back, looking at him. "You must be starved after all that working!" she declared. "Did you even stop for lunch?"

Lew opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative but then paused. "Honestly, I can't remember," he realized. He had been so outraged that it seemed like he had just stormed back to the office and continued working, determined all the more to bring that woman down for her criminal activities.

She should have been arrested for telling her men to go after Lew. But of course, she had insisted that they had taken her orders too far and that she had never told them to beat him up. And she had a crafty lawyer prepared to help her through any charges brought against her. That did not deter Lew, but it was certainly another obstacle.

Mrs. Wickersham threw up her hands. "Of course you don't remember!" she exclaimed. "Work, work, work. That's all you do with yourself!" She took his arm and led him into the house. "Come! Eat! Forget about work!"

Lew let himself be led, smiling to himself and hoping for that as well. Sometimes he needed a break.

"So what about this Joe Mannix?" Mrs. Wickersham asked as she brought him to the kitchen.

"What about him? Mother, I told you it's not likely I'll ever run into him again," Lew retorted. "Not unless we're eating at the same café."

"Well, you don't offer to take everyone you meet on a tour of Intertect," Mrs. Wickersham said, "even if they don't agree with the idea."

Lew had to admit that was true. "I guess it's because Mannix is different," he said, going to the sink to wash up. "Not only does he not like the idea, he has some pretty strong arguments against it and isn't about to give in. And for some reason, I wanted to show him what it's really like."

"And that didn't make any difference?"

Lew went to the stove and started dishing up the food. "He _did_ admit that maybe the computers are useful sometimes," he said. "But he's still not convinced."

"So give him a job," Mrs. Wickersham said. "Let him see some more."

Lew stopped and turned, raising an eyebrow. "Mom, what makes you think he's into that line of work?"

"He wouldn't be objecting so strongly if he wasn't," Mrs. Wickersham chirped. "And you wouldn't have given him the time of day if he was just a backseat detective."

"A backseat . . ." Lew shook his head in amusement. His mother came up with the oddest comments. But he had to admit, she was usually right. She was this time, at least.

"Alright, so he is a detective," he relented. "Or he wants to be. He doesn't even have his license yet. You know Intertect doesn't take on green agents."

"Maybe it's time you did," Mrs. Wickersham replied as Lew came to the table. "Train up the new generation in computerized detecting."

"He's not much younger than I am," Lew objected.

"But he's still getting into the P.I. business after you've been in the game a while," Mrs. Wickersham said without skipping a beat. "So he's the new generation."

Again Lew was amused. He couldn't argue with his mother's logic.

"And what are you doing starting to eat?" she exclaimed, seeing Lew cutting into the meat. "First we say grace."

"I wasn't starting to eat yet," Lew defended. "I was just getting ready while you were talking about Mannix."

Mrs. Wickersham smiled. "Bring him by sometime," she said as she folded her arms.

It was useless to say again that he wasn't going to run across Mannix another time, except to perhaps politely say Hello and catch up for five minutes. So Lew simply delivered the prayer and did not address the subject.

Mrs. Wickersham let it drop. She had made her point. And she knew she would indeed meet this Joe Mannix eventually—even if Lew didn't yet know it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes: Learning of the existence of a whole, new book about the series and the Mannix character (**_**And Now, Back to Mannix**_**) inspired me to write another chapter. This is a story I really want to write to completion, so hopefully I'll be able to keep it in rotation with the rest.**

**Scene Five**

The last thing Joe was expecting as he prepared to fill out his application was for another car to suddenly pull in front of him and block his entrance to the parking lot. Seriously annoyed, he leaned out the window and yelled, "What's the idea?!"

A tinted window on the other car—which was really a limousine—slowly rolled down, revealing the same aging star Joe had been looking at in the newspaper. "You're Joe Mannix, aren't you?" she purred. Her voice was amazingly smooth for her age; she was in her seventies.

That was surprising enough to cause Joe to rock back. "Well, yeah," he admitted. "But how do you know anything about me?"

"I've heard of you through Harry Forrest," she told him. "And do you know who I am?"

"Sure—Lana White," Joe frowned. "I was just reading about you. And Harry's great, but I'm having a real hard time believing someone of your social standing knows about him."

"I do, though." Lana leaned back. "I want to talk to you, Mr. Mannix. Obviously we can't stay here. Will you follow me back to my home?"

Joe's curiosity was just about boiling over by this point. Still, he forced himself to say, "I can, but if you're looking for a private investigator, you should know that I don't have my license yet. That's what I was coming here for, to fill out my application."

"This won't take long," Lana replied. "And for what I want, only you will do."

Before Joe could reply to that bizarre statement, the window rolled up again and the car straightened to drive out of the lot. Joe pulled aside to allow it free passage. When it was starting down the street, he immediately moved to follow it. After the cryptic nature of Lana's comments, there was no way Joe would stay away.

The drive to Beverly Hills was long and filled with traffic, but Joe supposed it really wasn't that long and it only seemed that way due to his impatience to get on with the conversation at hand. Finally the two vehicles drove through two mechanically opening golden gates and up a winding driveway, parking at the head by what looked like a four-car garage. The estate of Lana White loomed over them.

The chauffeur exited first and opened the door for Lana, who stepped out with calmness and grace. Joe walked up to meet them.

"We'll talk in the house," she told him as they headed up the walk. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"No, thanks," Joe said. "Just some answers."

"And you will have them." On the porch, Lana took out her key and opened the large door, admitting them into the entryway. She led him straight ahead and then to the left, into the spacious and well-furnished living room.

She plopped onto a couch like a diva and draped her arm along the top. "Sit down, Mr. Mannix," she implored.

Joe sat across from her on a chair, to study her reactions during the discussion. "Alright, Ms. White," he said. "I think it's high time you told me what you dragged me away from my application to tell me."

She nodded. "You said you were reading about me in the paper," she said. "Do you know how all of those terrible rumors about me got started?"

"The article mentioned that you felt a detective might have done it," said Joe.

"Yes; I'm being investigated by a private detective," she told him.

"Do you know who hired this detective?" Joe asked.

"I want you to find out," she said. Abruptly she leaned forward on the couch, propping herself up on her arms and clasping her hands.

"Like I told you, Ms. White, I'm not a licensed private investigator," Joe said. "And I can't work under Harry Forrest's name now. He let me go."

"You don't really need a license for what I want you to do," she insisted. Her eyes sparked with her plan. "You know the detective who's investigating me. Get close to him. Be friendly. Try to either get him to tell you about the case or find a way to sneak a look at his files."

Joe stiffened. "Wait a minute," he said. "Friendship's a priceless thing. I'm not going to go abusing it unless I know this guy really is doing something wrong."

"But you can't know that unless you get close to him!" Lana protested in frustration. "He covers his tracks too well. He pretends to be an outstanding citizen of the community."

"If he's a good private detective, he won't divulge his cases to anyone, even a friend," Joe pointed out.

"Then you'd have to sneak in and take a look!" Lana insisted. "He may be a good private detective, but he's sleaze, Mr. Mannix. You don't know what it's been like, being hounded by reporters and police officers and every imaginable sort of person trying to determine if there's any facts in the stories being spread about me!" She stood, beginning a nervous pace. "Frankly, I just can't take much more. I'm in excellent physical condition for my age, but I'm being worn down. I don't want that. I still have good years left to live, years that I don't want spoiled by a criminal investigation!"

Joe stood as well. "If you're innocent, Ms. White, you shouldn't have anything to be afraid of. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

She spun back to face him, her eyes flashing. "Alright then!" she spat. "You may leave. But before you go, I'm going to tell you the name of the private detective. Maybe then you'll rethink your answer."

"Fine," Joe retorted. "Go ahead and tell me."

"Llewellyn Wickersham." Lana watched him carefully. "Well, Mr. Mannix? What do you think of that?"

Joe just looked at her. "I think I should try to get his side of it before believing your version," he said.

She rocked back, staring at him. "So you think I'm guilty too?!" She was flying into an all-out rage. Alarmed, two maids rushed to the doorway.

"No," Joe responded coldly. "I don't know if you're guilty. But I don't believe Lew Wickersham would make up rumors about you or anyone else. It seems more like you're trying to smear his name instead of the other way around. And that, combined with the way you're acting, makes me think that something isn't adding up on your end of things."

If Lana had grown any angrier, Joe would have believed it possible for her hair to catch fire and then set fire to everything around her. She pointed to the door. "You've made yourself perfectly clear, Mr. Mannix. Get out!"

"Gladly," he retorted. "I'll still have time to get my application in today if I hurry."

He wasn't expecting the sudden ambush outside in the yard. But without warning, what felt like two men jumped him from behind. They struck at him and he ducked and struggled, getting in a punch to the stomach for one and a kick in the jaw for the second.

He also wasn't expecting a third man to strike him over the head, also from behind. Stars exploded in his vision and he sank to the ground, forgetting all existence.

xxxx

Lew didn't tend to find strange deliveries on his doorstep. Oh, a few times when he had been a struggling private detective, he had made some enemies and they had sent him bombs or other unpleasant warnings. But ever since Intertect had started growing bigger and more powerful, the colorful threats had seemed to die off. Most criminals weren't willing to tangle with someone who had so many people ready to fight back if anything happened to him.

_That woman_ was an exception, and he was still furious that she had the gall to actually call his mother and worry her. He _had_ to think of some way to bring her down. He _had _to.

He squinted in surprise and confusion as he pulled into his driveway. Night had fallen, and there wasn't a street light right outside his yard, but it looked like something was on his porch. Immediately suspicious and tense, he drew his gun and quietly exited the car, moving slowly towards the porch from the side. There was no movement from whatever was on the porch. It must not be a person lying in wait for him. And if it was some device set to go off, hopefully by approaching from the side he was avoiding the trigger.

He gasped as the motion light on the porch came on and revealed a limp, lifeless body. "Mannix?!" he cried in disbelief. He shoved his gun back in its holster and dropped to his knees, feeling for a pulse. It was strong, thankfully. Lew took his hand away from Joe's throat, feeling carefully along his head. There was definitely a painful bump under his hair.

Having someone poking and prodding him, however gently, seemed to bring Joe back to at least semi-awareness. He groaned, moving his hand along the porch. "Ugh . . . what happened?" he mumbled. "Who . . ."

"It's Lew Wickersham," Lew said tersely. "You're on my porch."

"What?!" Joe tried to leap up but promptly halted the motion, grimacing as the pain flared. He slumped back to the porch, raising his hand to investigate the bump.

Lew let him lay there for a moment before reaching out to help him sit up. Joe accepted the help, soon slumping against the wall of the house near the front door.

"Can you tell me who did this?" Lew demanded.

"Yeah," Joe growled, gingerly rubbing at his head. "Three goons who work for Lana White."

Lew rocked back in visible surprise. That was not what he had expected to hear.

"She invited me out to her place today. She had some very interesting things to say about you. All bad." Joe squinted up at him. "Those guys you and I beat up last night work for her too, don't they?"

Lew sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I guess now there's no sense in keeping it from you," he said. "Yes, they do."

"Well, you were right that she isn't exactly a mob boss, but she's not ready for a nunnery, either." Now Joe started to get up, gripping the wall for leverage. "I think you owe me some explanations."

Lew rose with him, holding out his arms to help if Joe should start to fall. "I think you're right. But first of all I owe you a doctor."

"Nevermind a doctor," Joe retorted. "This has happened to me before. All I need is some rest. And maybe a drink."

Lew came over to unlock the door. "I'm getting a doctor," he insisted. "Intertect's personal physician makes house calls. You can rest in my living room and have that drink while he's driving over."

"Doctors that make house calls," Joe mused, half-sardonically. "Isn't that a rather archaic concept for a modern detective agency like Intertect?"

Lew gave him a Look. "Not all of the archaic ways should have been eliminated," he said. "Intertect agents often prefer for a doctor to come examine them in the privacy of their homes instead of going to a hospital every time they're injured."

"Oh, so they get injured enough to actually need an in-house physician," Joe said.

Lew reached around Joe to switch on the light. "You can't be feeling too miserable, to be back to making cracks about Intertect," he said.

Joe limped ahead of him and into the room. "Like I said, it's happened to me before," he said. But he slumped into the soft couch and was grateful to be able to stay in one place for a while.

"It's a wonder you don't have brain damage," Lew muttered.

Shutting the door, he crossed to the phone and quickly dialed a number. When someone answered, he said, "Hello? This is Wickersham. I'm wondering if you could come out to my house. . . . No, I'm not injured, but there was a man on my porch who is. . . . Thank you, Doctor. We'll see you in fifteen minutes." He hung up the phone, looking relieved.

Joe watched him blearily. "Now, about that drink," he said. "And your explanation."

"I know," Lew sighed. "Just a minute." He poured Joe a brandy from the decanter and brought it over. Then, resigned, he sat on the opposite side of the couch.

"I was hired to investigate Lana White," he said. "The person suspected her of committing criminal acts and trying to cover them up. She's been sending her men after me ever since."

"I got that much out of her," Joe said. "She thinks you're spreading the rumors about her."

"And what did you believe?" Lew queried.

Joe looked to him. "I didn't believe _her,_" he said. "Actually, I was going to fill out my application and then come talk to you to get your side of it, but I got jumped before I could." He scowled. "Now those thugs owe me my chance at an application."

"You'll have time for that tomorrow, if you're feeling up to it." Lew regarded Joe in amazement. "You didn't believe her, but you barely know me, either."

"I know that," said Joe. "And I don't agree with you on a lot of things. But I believe you're an honorable man."

Lew slowly nodded. "Thank you," he said. "That means a great deal.

"No, I am not spreading any of the rumors about her. I don't know how they got started."

"Why is someone so interested in what she's doing after all these years anyway?" Joe wondered. "I'd think the spotlight would be on up-and-coming stars, not the remaining few from the Golden Age of Hollywood."

Lew looked at him. "Think about it," he said. "Who do you think would be the most interested?"

Joe shrugged. "Her family, if she has any." He blinked in realization. "Are _they_ the ones who hired you?"

"The identity of my client is still confidential, Mr. Mannix," Lew said. "But aside from that, now you basically know the important points in the case."

"Except for a couple of things," Joe countered. "Did you find any proof that she really is shady?"

"No, I haven't," Lew admitted. "But obviously she's worried I'll find something, or she wouldn't have her men after me. She also tried to bribe me into giving up the case. When I refused, she bothered my mother. I guess the restraining order I took out on her today made her decide to try her innocent act on you. Although how she knew we'd met is beyond me, unless her men in jail told her."

Joe decided not to repeat what she had said about Harry. It was probably a lie, but he would check with Harry personally before telling Lew. "And why did they dump me on your porch?" he said instead. "As a further warning to you to back off?"

"That would be my guess," Lew nodded. His eyes burned. "And she's gone too far. First my mother and now this! I'm not going to stand for it. I hope you're going to press charges."

"I'd love to, but I didn't happen to get their names," Joe grunted. "And Little Ms. White would probably find some way to twist things around and make it look like I'm the bad guy, like saying I was trespassing and conveniently not mentioning that she asked me to come to her place to talk."

Lew sighed in frustration. "Yes, she probably would," he said in disgust. "And she could probably make it stick."

"She wanted me to spy on you," Joe said, "and turn up the name of your client." His eyes gleamed. "Hey, wait a minute."

Lew eyed him warily. "What's on your mind, Mannix?"

"What if we could make her believe that I'm on her side?" Joe said excitedly. "I could convince her that the beating got me mad at you instead of her and I could pretend to investigate you, like she wanted. And maybe you could drum up some fake name for me to give her."

Lew stared at him in disbelief. "Did that crack on your head make you go out of your mind?!" he cried. "Mannix, that's insane! It would never work. And you'd be putting yourself in Heaven knows how much danger! Without even a license, too."

"I'd work under your license," Joe said. "You could hire me as an Intertect agent, just until this is over." He leaned forward, forgetting about the pain. "It's brilliant, Lew. She'd think I was spying on you, when in reality I'd be spying on _her!_"

Lew slumped back and removed his glasses, massaging his forehead. "Why would you even want to do something like that?" he said in overwhelmed dismay.

Now Joe's expression darkened. "I've got this funny dislike of being ambushed and hit on the head," he said. "Now this case isn't just about what Ms. White might be up to; it's personal."

Lew looked to him. He could see that Joe was dead serious. And he supposed the plan _could_ work. But it was so outrageous and preposterous that he needed time to process it.

"At least let me think about it until after the doctor leaves," he said. "No—until tomorrow."

"Alright," Joe agreed. "That's fair enough."

"And you don't move unless I say so," Lew cautioned, holding up a forefinger in warning.

"Of course," Joe said, sinking back into the couch.

Lew peered at him. "I wish I didn't have this funny feeling that you don't really mean that."

Joe gave him an innocent look in reply. "You're a key element of this plan. I _can't_ move without your blessing."

"I guess that makes sense," Lew sighed. Suddenly stern again, he said, "I'll hold you to that."

"I wouldn't expect anything else," Joe said.

_Of course, _he said to himself, _if you don't agree, I'll just come up with a different plan that doesn't involve you._

_Lana White, you are going down._


End file.
